


I'm Only Dancing

by trickybonmot



Series: Omegaverse Serial Secondary Sex Change AU [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Alpha/Omega, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Established Relationship, Experimentation, Failed Experiments, Greg Lestrade is the friend we all deserve, John wants all the dick, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Non-Traditional Omegaverse, Omega Verse, Other, Partner sharing kink, Pheromones, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock wants to be treated bad, The Porn Is the Plot, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, cuckold kink, first time threesome, kink salad, limits what limits, objectification fantasy, slut fantasy, successful experiments, trope salad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-22 18:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot
Summary: When John unexpectedly enters pseudo-estrus in public, the pair discover a new shared fantasy. They enlist a friend to make it real, but heat proves to be a wild card with a second Alpha on the scene.





	I'm Only Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> Will make slightly more sense if you read at least the first fic in the series, but don't stress. 
> 
> I couldn't let my Omegaverse series stand without at least one fic in the "Oh no, unexpected heat!" genre. Hope it's worth the wait, I've had this as a WIP for like two years. :-p
> 
> Hey, what's that over there? That faint glint almost over the horizon? Is that -- canon? Oh, wait, never mind, it's gone.

“I’m telling you,” Sherlock said again, as John got his jacket on.

“And I’m telling _you_ ,” John said. “I’ve got two days left. That app is never wrong, and anyway, I’m not feeling it at all.”

“You’d really trust an _app_ over my nose?”

“I’ll take my chances,” John said. “Besides, I’ve got a shift scheduled. Too late to get out of it now, even if I _were_ on heat, which I’m not.”

“Not yet,” Sherlock agreed. “I give it seven hours.”

“Good enough,” John said. “See you later, then.” He bent to give Sherlock a quick kiss on the cheek before leaving.

In the old days, it had been easy for Omegas who experienced pseudo-oestrus to track their cycles. It was rare to encounter them in public during their heats, because the usual advice given them by doctors and loved ones was to simply stay home, and they could plan ahead to get out of their responsibilities for the duration. Nowadays, it was more complicated. John had to track the number of hours he spent as an Omega, and since he couldn’t predict when those hours would fall, he couldn’t predict his heat with any real accuracy. He was lucky to work in an office with enough flexibility to accommodate his irregular absences.

This was one area, Sherlock and John had been dismayed to discover, where the Change had not really made much difference. Before the change, so-called “hot” Omegas had suffered from barely acknowledged discrimination. It was common for them to lose their jobs because of their condition, or to suffer from sexual harassment at work when they were forced to make it known. If they did go out in public alone while on heat, they were still technically protected from sexual assault under the law, but in practice it was difficult to get convictions because it was so widely accepted that heat overwhelmed the self control of Omegas and Alphas alike.

Nowadays, casual objectification of Omegas was much less acceptable than it once had been (indeed, it was almost nonexistent among the younger generation), but there was no denying the effect that an Omega in heat could have on any Alphas who caught a whiff of them. John wasn’t in any actual danger—or not much, anyway—both because he was tough and because norms of Alpha behavior had improved since the change. But the few times that he had tried going about his ordinary life during his heat, the distorted attention from Alphas had been disruptive enough to discourage him from doing so on a regular basis. These days, if he had to go out, Sherlock would go with him to fend them off. Sherlock was always Alpha during John’s heats—an effect of pheromones, he supposed—and he took more enjoyment then he probably should have from raising his figurative hackles at any competitor who looked sideways at his…well, his mate, apparently. John’s feelings were more mixed, but that was to be expected.

Sherlock was Alpha now, and so it was with some trepidation that he listened to John’s footsteps trotting down the stairs and the slam of the front door; not angry, just rushed. Didn’t want to miss his train. Eight fifteen now. Forty minutes for the commute, at least eight hours at work, forty minutes more to get home again…

But there was nothing he could do, so Sherlock opened his email and got on with his day.

He solved seven cases from his inbox before noon, and made appointments to meet with three new clients. Then he went out to do some legwork for a suspected extramarital affair. It was elementary, really, but it didn’t hurt to be sure, and anyhow, he rather fancied a walk. He’d just confirmed his suspicions (the person in question was taking patisserie classes in secret because she knew her husband would say it was a waste of money) when Lestrade texted him with a nice double murder. This took up the rest of the afternoon, and it was 4:30 when he got a text from John.

_Home?_

_Scotland yard_ , Sherlock answered.

 _Meet you there_ , said John.

“I’m getting coffee. You want any?” asked Lestrade.

“No, but get one for John. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

“Got off work early, did he?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, not thinking. But then… _oh_.

Instead of waiting for Lestrade to come back, Sherlock went out to wait for John at the door. It was not _quite_ true that he could smell John before he saw him, but the state of affairs was obvious well before the scent reached him, from John’s fast, upright walk and the flush in his cheeks and the way people’s heads turned as he passed them. He was the sexiest thing Sherlock had ever seen.

“Hey,” said John, when he reached him.

“Hello,” said Sherlock. He kept his hands tucked close to his body, not wanting to embarrass John with a public display. “You want to get on home? Lestrade can do without me for a bit.”

“No, thanks, it’s fine,” John said lightly. “I can hang around until you’re done. Tell me about the case.”

So Sherlock told him the details as they went back up to Lestrade’s office. Heads continued to turn, but they both ignored the stares. Even Sally Donovan gave John a lingering look as she passed them in the hall. 

It was something of a relief to get back into Lestrade’s office and shut the door. Lestrade hadn’t come back with the coffee yet. Sherlock sat down in Lestrade’s chair behind the desk and put his feet up, because if he didn’t put something between himself and John it would be that much harder to resist his very inappropriate urges. He was half-hard in his pants as it was. John’s gaze was on him, hot and bright. He glowed. It was like magic, really.

“Thanks, by the way,” John said.

“For what?”

“For not saying ‘I told you so.’”

“I wasn’t even thinking of it,” Sherlock said, which was true. He let his expression show some of what he _had_ been thinking, and John leered unsubtly back. He knew the effect he had on Sherlock and made no secret of enjoying it. Sherlock slouched down lower in the chair, his face hot, picturing all the thousand things he would do to John as soon as they got home.

And then Lestrade came in with the coffee. 

He paused just inside the doorway, as though confused, and shot dubious looks first at Sherlock, then at John. He came cautiously inside and handed one of the cups to John.

“Thanks,” John said.

“You’re welcome,” said Lestrade. Then he stopped to watch John take a sip. Sherlock cleared his throat, and Lestrade looked at him.

“Oi, get out of my chair,” he snapped. 

Sherlock thought about refusing, just to see what would happen. He dragged his feet off the desk, and rolled the chair around to the other side, next to John, without getting out of it. Lestrade thumped his coffee down on the desk with a weary sigh and dragged one of the other chairs into its place.

“Has Sherlock filled you in?” he asked John. 

“More or less, yeah,” John said.

“Right,” said Lestrade. “Let’s go over the witness statements again.”

Lestrade went on talking, but Sherlock was only half listening, distracted by John. Doubly distracted, in fact, by Lestrade’s reaction to John. He kept glancing up at John as he spoke, as though looking for his approval. Sherlock might as well not have been there, as far as Lestrade was concerned. John nodded along, offering the occasional observation and sipping his coffee calmly. Only now and then he caught Sherlock’s eye, amused and…testing. Checking his reaction. Sherlock could have growled at Greg, could have reminded him with a sharp word or a shift in posture just who it was that John belonged to. But something in John’s reactions stopped him. Sherlock arched a wry eyebrow, let John see that he didn’t disapprove—and then, the next time Greg gave him one of those hungry looks, John met his eyes, and smiled, and just let his fingers wander up into his hairline, and Greg stopped talking, right in the middle of a sentence. The silence ticked on. Greg swallowed.

“It was the girlfriend,” Sherlock said, without knowing he was going to. Greg’s head snapped toward him, as though he’d only just then remembered Sherlock was there.

“Sorry, what?”

“Girlfriend,” Sherlock repeated, getting to his feet. “Check her garden shed for the pruning saw. Come on, John, time to go.”

“See you later,” John said to Greg, all innocence. Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him out of the office without waiting to hear Greg’s reply. He let go again once they were out, but John followed him closely as he stalked toward the loo which was, thankfully, unoccupied. Once inside, Sherlock crowded John up against the back of the door so that he could bury his nose in the fragrant warmth of John’s neck.

“You liked it,” he growled. “Lestrade could hardly take his eyes off you, and you _liked_ it.”

“Yeah,” John said, a little defensive, though he was clearly turned on by Sherlock’s display of aggression. “I think he’s pretty fit. What, you going to fly into a jealous rage, or something?”

“Hn,” Sherlock chuckled. “Do you want me to?” He licked John’s neck.

“God! I dunno,” John said, squirming. “Kind of. But I know it’s just—just chemical. Don’t hurt him, really, I’m sure he can’t help it—“

“No,” Sherlock said. “He can’t. It’s incredible.” He ground his hips into John’s against the wall, let John feel how hard he was. “Do you want him, too? Does he excite you?”

“Yeah,” John said. 

“Would you let him fuck you? Get his knot up all inside you? Hmm? Fill you up?”

“Yeah,” John breathed, as Sherlock rubbed against him. “Yeah, yeah, oh _Christ_ Sherlock, I need you, I don’t think I can wait—“

Sherlock tore open the fly of John’s jeans and shoved his hand down deep to dig his fingers up into John’s wetness. John moaned. “Right here?” Sherlock growled. “Now? Are you really that desperate?” God, the way he _smelled_. 

“Yeah,” John panted. “Yeah, please, do it, I need you—“

With a wordless snarl, Sherlock yanked out his hand and spun John around by the hips. John got to work lowering his jeans while Sherlock unfastened his own trousers. His cock sprang out hard and ready, and then his focus narrowed to John, only John, and John’s sweet, slick, open, shivering body. He pushed in to the hilt immediately, and John muffled a cry against his wrist. John couldn’t spread his legs much to brace himself, so Sherlock held him up, grinding him against the hard surface of the door, fucking him with long, sure strokes that let John feel every inch of the cock he so desperately needed.

“You like it,” Sherlock said again. “All those strangers, looking at you, _smelling_ you, wanting to fuck you. Hmm?”

“Uhhnn,” John whimpered.

“All those Alpha cops. Lestrade. They know you need it. They know you’re in here, getting fucked. Wondering if they can fuck you when I’m done.”

“God,” said John.

“Maybe I should let them do it. Should I? Just let them line up and take you for their toy, knot after knot, for days, while I watch—“

 _”God,”_ John said, and then Sherlock couldn’t talk anymore, and couldn’t move, and John was coming hard on his knot, whining with the effort of not shouting, and Sherlock was following him fast, muffling his moans in the fabric of John’s shirt.

***

They got out of there, somehow, without even being arrested for public indecency. Their cab driver home was Omega, thank God, or Sherlock didn’t know what might have happened. Even as it was, she cast some very dubious looks their way, though she did get them home without commenting on her observations. 

Once inside, John stripped to the skin and got straight into bed, and Sherlock did the same. They fucked again immediately, though more slowly this time, and this time Sherlock wrapped John up in his arms and called him _my own_ and kissed him tenderly all through it, and John said _so good_ and _love you_ , and afterward they dozed together in a sticky tangle, without fear of changing shape.

Eventually, John got up and brought a plate of food back to bed: leftover tortellini alfredo from Angelo’s. Carbs and fat, fuel for the fire that would burn inside him for the next two and a half days. Sherlock pulled himself up to sit cross-legged. John handed him a fork, and they picnicked on the sheet. 

“So did that really get you off, that business at the Yard?” John asked.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said.

“Well, yeah, obviously,” John smiled, looking wicked. “But I mean, I know my heats usually make you more possessive. I was surprised you wanted to go there, with all that—sharing stuff.” He voice was steady, but his cheeks were red. He was, Sherlock sensed, invested in Sherlock’s response.

“You know what I’m like,” Sherlock said, after a pause. “You know that I…crave…novelty.”

John smiled knowingly, but said nothing. 

“And you know that I like things to be…inverted. I like to be given the opposite of what I want.”

“Yeah,” John said, still smiling.

“So, yes, I do get…territorial. Fiercely. And so I like the thought of other people. Touching you.”

Neither of them had eaten a bite for quite some time.

“So,” John said. “Do you want to try it?”

***

“Let me see,” Sherlock said.

John handed him the phone, and Sherlock flipped through the photos John had taken of himself. John had expected at first that Sherlock would want to take the pictures, but Sherlock argued that it would tell the wrong sort of story. Of the ones John had taken, quite a few were blurry or too oddly composed to be erotic. But then—

“This one,” Sherlock said. It was one of the series where John had laid the phone flat on the bed and crouched over it. The fleshy expanse of John’s thigh took up the foreground, but up in the corner John’s hand was visible, tucked in the shadowy cleft of his buttocks, ostensibly concealing his anatomy, but with two fingers bent at the knuckle in a way that quite negated any pretense at modesty. He handed the phone back to John.

“Hm, good taste,” John said. “Okay, what should I say?”

“Ask him what he’s wearing,” Sherlock said. It was slang, a way to ask whether Lestrade was presently Alpha or Omega.

John sent the text. The phone buzzed in reply a few seconds later, and then again a second after that. John laughed.

“’No change since yesterday,’ he says, and then he says, ‘why?’”

“Ask him if he wants to come over, then send him the photo.”

“Okay. What should I say about you?”

“Anything you like. Don’t tell me.”

“I’ll tell him you’re not home.” 

Sherlock only huffed in reply, suddenly lost for words. John smiled, tapping away on the phone—clearly he was sending something much longer than “Sherlock isn’t home”, but Sherlock spared himself the effort of imagining what it might be. Before John finished the message, a reply came back, Lestrade’s reaction to the photo, and John gave a joyful bark of a laugh.

“He says ‘holy fucking Christ’.”

A couple of more buzzes, John tapping away.

“He’s coming over,” John said. 

“How long?”

“Forty-five minutes.” John looked up at him, unutterably lovely with his face flushed and his hair all sticking up and his naked legs crossed on the duvet. “Is that enough time?”

“Enough time for what?”

“For you to—I don’t know. Mentally prepare. Are you good?” John reached out to skim his fingertips over the back of Sherlock’s hand. 

“Do I seem not good?”

“You seem nervous,” John said. He stroked Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock leaned into the touch, breathing deeply of John’s bewitching scent. Who wouldn’t want him?

“Greg doesn’t really think—?”

“No,” John said quietly. “You want to read the texts? I’ll have him text you, if you want, or call you, even.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be fine.” He took hold of John’s hand and kissed the inside of his wrist, letting his teeth graze the tender skin. John exhaled shakily, meeting Sherlock’s eyes with a hot gaze.

“You want to help me take the edge off before he gets here?” John asked. “Cause I’m…really…”

“I want to wind you up,” Sherlock said. “Get you so on edge, so when he touches you—“

“God, yeah,” John said. “Let’s do that.”

So, with infinite care, Sherlock prepared John to meet his lover: kissing him, petting him, licking his nipples to hardness, fingering him slickly open and marking him with two firm, bruising bites, one on his throat and one high up on his inner thigh. As the appointed time drew near, John was shaking with want, his eyes watering, his breath coming in harsh half-sobs.

“Oh, God, you’d better—I need. A break. A few minutes, or I’ll—“

“Yeah,” Sherlock said, landing a last sucking kiss beside John’s navel. “I suppose I should—I don’t know. Hide? Where do you want me?”

“Spy on me,” John said. “Anywhere.”

“Oh!” Sherlock said. “I’ve just the thing.”

***

The few minutes before Greg arrived gave them just enough time to set up a spy camera on the bedside table. Sherlock took his laptop up to John’s old bedroom—now a trifle musty with disuse and cluttered with odds and ends—and settled in on the bed to load up the feed. The camera angle left a little to be desired, but the sound pickup would be good. In fact, even now he was getting some sound from it as John padded out to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He could hear the real sounds of it as well, floorboards creaking and water hissing in the pipes. Ordinary and not. 

The bell rang downstairs. Mrs Hudson was not in, as she had taken to visiting her sister during John’s heats (“No offense, dear, but at my time of life,” she’d said, leaving the rest unspoken, and Sherlock had not been offended.) so John, in a dressing gown probably, left the flat and went all the way down to the street door. As they came back up, Sherlock could hear them talking: excited, nervous. A burst of laughter. The sound of his own name, distinct. His heart was pounding. The smell of John was still on his fingers, and he breathed it in, paradoxically soothing and inflammatory. His omega. _His_.

They came up, they went through, they were in the bedroom. An expectant hush.

“Christ,” Greg said. 

“What?” John asked, his voice quiet. Intimate. They were close together.

“The smell in here,” Greg said. “I don’t know whether to tear your clothes off or apologize for intruding.”

“No apologies,” John said. “This is Sherlock’s room, so that’s him you’re smelling. And on me, too. See? Here. And here.”

Showing Greg his neck, probably, and his…wrist? No way to be sure. But Greg would be leaning in, breathing deep—getting a faint whiff of Sherlock, and big breath of John, of that sublime, overwhelming pheromonal miasma whose powerful effects Sherlock very well knew. 

A grunt of breath from Greg, and from John, a heated whisper almost to quiet to hear: _”God.”_

“You really want to do this, huh?” Greg said. Mouth muffled a little. With skin?

“I _need_ it,” John moaned. “Need an Alpha.”

“What about Sherlock?”

“Just left me here alone,” John said, and upstairs Sherlock huffed out a breath, fought the urge to squirm. “But I’m _so_ hot, God, Greg. Touch me.”

“Oh my god, you’re _wet_ ,” Greg growled, and hot prickles lit up all over Sherlock’s skin, knowing that Greg’s hand was inside John’s clothes.

“Need you to fuck me,” John breathed. He was playacting a little, Sherlock thought, but there was a desperate hitch in his voice that he didn’t have the skill to fake. Not that there was any reason for him to be faking; Sherlock had made very sure that his lust would be at fever-pitch, and John was clearly quite turned on by the idea of playing the much desired object of every Alpha who caught wind of him. Sherlock lowered his pajama bottoms to free his straining cock.

“I’ll take care of you,” Greg promised. His voice was muffled a little—by skin, probably. 

“Mmm, wow, you’re so big,” John groaned. Sherlock bit his lip. Bigger than him? He gripped his own cock, trying to guess. It twitched as though trying to match the monster Sherlock saw in his mind’s eye. 

There were some rustling sounds whose import was not completely clear to Sherlock, but now John and Greg moved into view of the lens, and Sherlock was treated to the somewhat grainy image of naked Greg pushing naked John back onto the bed. They were kissing; it was something of a shock to see Greg’s face, actually—actually bearing down on John, and John with his mouth wide open for Greg’s tongue to plunder.

“Ahh, fuck!” John cried, twisting out of the kiss, his voice rough. “Now, Greg, seriously, I’m on fire. Fuck me right now.”

“So demanding,” Greg chided. “Good Omegas say please, don’t they?”

John let out a long half-growl, and Sherlock knew that he was genuinely reaching a new pitch of desperation. “Please,” he rumbled, grudgingly.

“Mm, that’s better,” Greg said. “It’s no wonder Sherlock doesn’t want you if you can’t behave. But then again, you are so fuckable, it’s hard to resist you. I think you’d better turn over.”

God, it was ridiculous, they were pouring it on too thick, and yet it was _working_. Sherlock twisted in his seat, stroking his cock faster. John turned over. Greg kneeled up and moved back out of sight.

“Is this how he touches you?” Greg asked. John gasped, his face lovely with it. Greg must be—must have his fingers inside him. 

“Yeah,” John said. “Yeah, please, more, your cock— _please_ —ah, _fuck_.” He let out a long groan, and Sherlock could just hear Greg’s moan of satisfaction as he—surely—sank his cock into John’s inflamed and dripping wet hole. Sherlock moaned and stroked himself fast, feeling for both of them at once. 

The effects of Sherlock’s earlier efforts were readily apparent. John was fairly mewling with need, a state he only ever got into when in heat. The pseudo-estrus drove him with a nearly irresistible imperative to achieve orgasm in the presence of an Alpha knot. If he wasn’t knotted he wouldn’t come, but nor could he easily descend from his pitch of sexual arousal. The physiology of the process was such that Sherlock could not always quite keep up with him, and when he failed, this was the result, John rendered almost incoherent, his skin flushed and heart racing. The sight of it now, with Sherlock unable to touch him, was akin to torture, and not precisely in the way Sherlock had anticipated. Lestrade was putting in a good effort — John’s body jolted with each powerful thrust of his cock — but he clearly hadn’t been as worked up as John and was taking his time about achieving a knot. 

John had said in the past that he rather enjoyed these little delays in gratification. The two of them would make it part of their play, with John scraping together enough coherence to scold Sherlock for his inadequacy as an Alpha. Sherlock would apologize profusely and promise to try to do better. It was delicious, and John would very quickly get what he needed. 

At the moment, however, John was looking as though he might be a little past the point of enjoying himself. How could Greg not be ready yet? If Sherlock were in there, they would both be practically finished by now. Then again, even as aroused as Sherlock was, _he_ wasn’t forming a knot either, and that was surprising enough to kick-start the part of his brain that wasn’t wrapped up in the image of John being serviced by their best friend’s cock. 

They hadn’t done anything like this before, of course. Had John ever gone through heat without Sherlock in attendance? He had not. Neither of them had any experience of what it was like to be apart from each other during this time, let alone with a different person there instead. They had assumed that another Alpha could step in just as easily, but what if this wasn’t the case? The biology of heat hadn’t been tested in this situation.

Sherlock’s erection flagged somewhat as he carefully observed John’s expressions. He was crying encouragement to Greg, but in between he was gritting his teeth. His eyes were wild. He looked almost — should they stop? Should he— 

“Sher—“ John gasped, “Sh’lock, I need—“

But Sherlock was already up and dashing for the stairs. 

Lestrade was no fool, thank God. He had already disengaged from John and was looking around at the sound of Sherlock’s approach. Hardly registering his stammered apologies, Sherlock shouldered him out of the way and went right to the post. John’s scent had brought him instantly back to full hardness, and he sank in with no resistance whatsoever.

“Ah, God!” John cried. “Yeah, Sherlock, fuck, do it, I’m—“

“It’s all right,” Sherlock cooed. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

His knot swelled up so fast it hurt, and John gave a feral cry, his knuckles white on the bedsheets. In no time at all he was coming, with Sherlock just seconds behind. Sherlock was quite beyond words, but John was grunting “Oh, fuck, Jesus, oh, my God,” until, with a long groan, he began to come down. Then he began to shake, and Sherlock realized he was laughing.

“Ohhh my god,” John moaned into the pillow, an edge of hysteria in his voice. “Holy Christ. Sherlock, quick, turn us over. Greg? Oy, Greg!”

Through his confusion, Sherlock realized that John was trying to get out from under him, but couldn’t because of the knot. So Sherlock took hold and rolled them both over so that he was lying on his back with John on his chest. John tried to squirm upright, but Sherlock yelped in pain. John stilled, but he called for Greg again. Lestrade had left the room when Sherlock took over. Now he pushed the door slightly open and peered cautiously round it.

“Sounds like you boys are okay?” he said.

“We’re fucking great,” John said. “Please come back?”

Were they great? Sherlock supposed they were. His knot was subsiding a little. John pulled off of his cock and slithered semi-upright, leaning back on Sherlock’s chest to regard Greg, who came just inside the room and loitered by the door. He had on dark blue briefs and a half-buttoned shirt, and his forelock was slicked down with sweat. 

“Sorry about that. We miscalculated,” said John. 

“Pheromones,” said Sherlock, toward the ceiling.

“Yeah,” John said, turning to smile at him.

“Well, no harm done,” Lestrade said, and sniffed. “So, thanks for the invitation, I’ll just—“

“Wait,” said John. “We’re not done. I mean, you can leave if you want to, but we could also keep going.”

“Might work,” Sherlock said.

“What might work?” said Lestrade, looking from one of them to the other in puzzlement.

“So I think Sherlock’s scent on me inhibited the development of your knot,” John explained. “But now that we’ve — uh — I think the smell might be different, and it might work.”

“Evolution,” Sherlock said, toward the ceiling. “Extra-pair copulation. See it in birds.”

“Birds?” said Lestrade, nonplussed.

“Point is, if it’s okay with Sherlock, I’m…more than willing.” John let his legs fall open. In Lestrade’s position, Sherlock would have been utterly unable to resist, but maybe it was different if you weren’t the primary Alpha. He couldn’t help smiling to himself at the thought.

“You’re both mental,” Lestrade said, but he was peeling off his shirt. He shook his head to dash the sweat from his brow, climbed briskly out of his pants, and clambered back up onto the bed. John flipped over, and Sherlock suddenly had a mouthful of him, a soft, hot kiss as John’s body covered him, close and private after seeing so much of John’s back. Sherlock pulled him closer still. 

“All right?” said Lestrade, kneeling up.

John moved his hot mouth close to Sherlock’s ear. “Tell him he can have me,” he whispered, and Sherlock was on solid ground again. He knew what game they were playing. He slid his hands down to John’s buttocks, opening him.

“All yours, Inspector,” he purred, and John shivered against him as Lestrade drew near.

Lestrade’s eyes met Sherlock’s with an electric spark. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, his voice low and silky. Oh, he really was rather fit, that Greg. He braced himself with an arm on the mattress, and Sherlock saw the lean tendons standing out in his shoulder as he took his aim and penetrated John. John’s breath huffed hot against Sherlock’s neck. Lestrade began to move, and it was clear right away that this time would indeed be different. Sherlock knew it by how John breathed, by Lestrade’s heavy eyes, by the smell of him. 

“Oh, fuck, ’s good,” John moaned. 

“Oh, Jesus,” grunted Lestrade.

“I’m so wet,” John murmured, low, for Sherlock’s ears alone. “So soppy and soft, with your come in me already. His cock is covered in it. ’S dripping out.” 

A low growl scraped in Sherlock’s throat. He was hard again. Lestrade was making short, deep thrusts, already too swollen to pull out far. John’s hands fisted in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock found Lestrade’s eyes again. 

“Isn’t he good?” he said. 

“Yeah,” Lestrade breathed.

“You can fuck him whenever you like,” Sherlock said lightly. (“Yes,” whispered John, in his ear.) “Whenever I’m not using him. He loves to be fucked. Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” John quavered, louder. 

“You can bring your friends. Loves to be shot full of spunk. Anybody’s. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, fuck, shit, yeah,” John moaned, and he was losing it. Lestrade gave a hard growl and started to come, teeth bared, his shoulders like rocks. John yelped, thrashing on the invading knot, his fluid dribbling onto Sherlock’s stomach. Hardly thinking about what he was doing, Sherlock took hold of John’s hips and centered himself below John’s bouncing prick. He pressed up and, the very second there was room, he shoved in, right in alongside Lestrade’s softening cock, shockingly tight and slippery. John whined, but not in protest.

“Ah, Christ!” Lestrade cried, thrusting in counterpoint to Sherlock, their cocks sliding together in John’s dripping hole. 

“You can take this,” Sherlock growled. “Can’t you? You like taking us both at once. You like it.”

“Fuck, yeah, Jesus,” John groaned, and he was dripping sweat all over Sherlocks chest, tilting his hips to somehow let them both fuck him at once. And then Lestrade slipped out and it was just Sherlock, swelling up again to fill him while Lestrade covered John’s back, mouth on John’s shoulder, his eyes closed while John took his third and final load of pungent Alpha spunk, throbbing slow and hot together with Sherlock, his mate, his first and last and only. Sherlock had never been more sure of it. He pulled John close and kissed him, John shivering all over. Sherlock petted his back, his head, his upper arms, until John at last went limp against him. Then he remembered to see to their guest. 

Lestrade had at some point slid off to one side, and now lay with his head propped on his elbow, watching them with a hypnotic expression. When Sherlock looked back at him he blinked and raised his eyebrows, but didn’t look away. John turned his head to face Lestrade, too, resting it on Sherlock’s sternum. 

“Don’t know if you bargained for all that,” Sherlock said. 

Lestrade smiled warmly. “Well,” he chuckled, “John did say you might pop out of the woodwork.”

“Oh, _did_ he now?” said Sherlock, giving John a light pinch. John gave a “Hm,” but no more.

“Point is, it was quite clear that anything could happen. So,” Lestrade shrugged, “I’m not bothered. In point of fact, I had quite a nice time.” He grinned, and Sherlock felt again that spark of attraction. Surely it wasn’t — no. No, he did _not_ want with Lestrade what he had with John. But oh, yes, it was pleasant to have him in his bed. The realization shocked him a little. 

“So did I,” Sherlock said. “John, you? Did you have fun?”

“Oh, yeah,” said John, with such slow and catlike relish that the other two laughed. 

“Truth is,” said Lestrade, “I’ve always wanted to try something like this, but I always worried about emotional complications.”

“Not now?”

Again that boyish grin. “Well, it’s pretty clear you two couldn’t be pried apart by anything short of a crowbar, so, no, I’m not worried.” 

“You don’t feel left out?” asked John.

Greg shrugged and shook his head. “Nah. Feels good. Feels like — like coming to dinner. Cozy. I’m glad you joined in, though, Sherlock, it was a bit weird before.”

“It would have worked if it weren’t for all this pheromonal nonsense. We should try again when John’s heat is over.” 

Lestrade frowned. “Will you want to? I mean, I kind of assumed this was all part of — all that.”

“Mm, you should come over when we’re switched,” John said. “What we just did, Sherlock would _love_. “

Sherlock felt his face get hot. Now that John mentioned it, the idea was quite appealing. 

“May take you up on that.” Lestrade smiled, but his eyelids were at half-mast. “So, d’you want to be left alone? Because. If you don’t kick me out, ’m gonna have a nap right here.”

“Mm, same,” said John. He slid off of Sherlock’s chest to lie between him and Lestrade, totally disregarding the unruly slick of various bodily fluids. Sherlock turned onto his side to ease his back, shoved the pillows around until he found a cool spot, and closed his eyes. Though he was quite tired himself, he was awake long enough to hear Lestrade’s breathing become slow and deep, and he felt John’s body twitch as it sometimes did when sleep took him. The room was warm. The day was young. He dozed.


End file.
